


Limerence

by ancient_moonshine (paperfeathers)



Series: water in the dust [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Emperor Hux, Imperialism, Manipulation, Politics, Senator Kylo Ren, Slavery, Unresolved Sexual Tension, eyefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:46:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9068302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/pseuds/ancient_moonshine
Summary: The Emperor, for all his might and power, is still human. Ren's more than happy to exploit this.





	

He’s so human. That’s what’s making Ren’s job so difficult.

The Emperor’s speaking, some pro-Empire platitude that pours in then out of Ren’s hearing like water through sand. It’s a grand spectacle. The Emperor, standing tall and proud, addressing his cheering subjects. The symbol of the First Order emblazoned on flags, on uniforms, the red lines painted like blood on the white of bleached bone. It’s an impressive sight, a show of force meant to intimidate and awe. The cheers are deafening, but Ren has to wonder how many are doing it out of true loyalty, or for fear of the faceless stormtroopers surrounding the parade grounds.

Ren doesn’t cheer. He never cheers. But he watches. And the Emperor knows it. Ren can feel those eyes on him, can feel the Emperor’s silent outrage as well as something that runs deeper than desire.

(Longing.)

Ren’s careful to keep his expression neutral. It’s difficult enough to do on a good day, but marginally easier when Ren’s away from the Senate and all the attendant banthashit. The Emperor included. And considering what happened barely three days ago…. He half-expects the Imperial Guards to break into his quarters and attempt to haul him out in the dead of night, but so far, nothing.

He’s not about to relax, though. The Emperor isn’t above playing dirty. Though he’s also pragmatic, so Ren guesses whatever backlash he might get for his audacity would be personal. The Free Territories are too volatile a region for a ruler to wilfully sabotage. Not when the Empire’s forces, if rumors were to be believed, are already stretched so thin on the ground, their numbers still overwhelming, but sizeably whittled down by the Resistance’s guerrilla fighters.

 _This is wrong._ The thought isn’t his own. Ren turns to see his personal aide, a Twi’lek woman named Ojah Rizu, clapping politely at the Emperor’s pronouncements. She’s far too cautious to make a face like she really wants to, but she’s broadcasting her contempt loud and clear through the Force, overlaid with mingled horror and sympathy for the stormtroopers standing at attention. Her dress leaves her nape and back exposed, revealing flesh riddled with old scars. Most of them were whipmarks from her days as a slave, shortly before the system-wide revolution that ousted the last of the Hutts and ensured they would never return to power.

(Ren wonders if the Emperor has scars, beneath those heavy robes he always wore, or if the rest of him is as smooth and pale and soft as the skin of his throat and nape.)

 _We shouldn’t be here._ It’s not the first time she’s expressed that thought. Ren doesn’t have to peer into her head to know she’s thinking about Ryloth. Still standing, somehow, but slowly and surely being overwhelmed by the First Order’s forces.

 _We’ve talked about this before, Ojah._ Ren’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone holds an edge that had the Twi’lek’s lekku twitching in agitation. _Numerous times._ One of them had almost involved a blaster shot. Ojah backs down, but the angry clamor of her thoughts do not abate, and neither does her seething rage at the injustice of it all. Ren very, very carefully does not think of a certain grey-haired general, commandeering what’s left of their fleet of battered X-wings from some desolate planet.

(He’d once told her that he would be willing to give her asylum, had asked her to stop giving up what was left of her for a lost cause. That conversation had not ended well.)

Eyes on him, again. Ren looks up to find a pale blue gaze boring into his. It’s a welcome distraction from his memories. Had Ren been someone else he would have smirked, offered a flirtatious smile, but Ren already knew that such affectations would have no effect on the Emperor. Only the abject surrender – or destruction – of his rivals ever satisfied that man and his insatiable lust for power. Whatever satisfied his… other appetites was anyone’s guess, but Ren’s beginning to get a good idea what it is.

(Ren can still remember how soft his skin was, beneath his palms. The lovely heated blush, so warm against Ren’s skin. The panic, and touching the Emperor had felt a bit like holding a struggling bird. The danger of razor-sharp talons and beak ever-present, but Ren had stroked him gently, and he had fallen still. Quivering and soft and vulnerable in Ren’s hands.  So much unexpected innocence, longing for a gentle touch that Ren had been surprised, then saddened, fighting with his own desire to give him more-)

He even looks a little like a bird now, Ren observes. A bird of prey in his ornate red and white dress uniform, his hair slicked back, his features harsh and severe,  his eyes like two chips of pale ice. He’d been the youngest to ever hold the rank of general in the First Order, the heir to the bloodied legacy of the stormtrooper program and the creator of Starkiller base. Now he was holding the galaxy tight in his bloodied fists. The Free Territories had avoided the worst of the fighting – namely because most of its planets had next to no resources to squabble over - but news – and refugees – arrived on the regular. So much so that the First Order, which like the Republic before it had been content to let them bleed and die by themselves in an effort to wrest their freedom from the Hutts, had turned its hungry red maw towards them.

Trapped between the waiting jaws of the First Order and the flagging strength of the Resistance, the leaders of the Free Territories made the only choice possible under the circumstances.

 _We cast away our chains only to walk back into a cage._ Ojah’s disgusted anger is a beacon flare. Ren feels an echo of it rising, but he pushes it down. Latching on to familiar cold calm.

 _It’s a choice between a functioning government whose weaknesses we can and are exploiting, or dying for a Republic that never protected us._ Ojah barely manages to hide her bristle.

_You are condoning the actions of a slaver._

_We’re using him. There’s a difference._  

This time, Ojah does not stop herself from glances at him askance. Ren avoids her gaze, but thankfully her reply is drowned out by the sound of TIE fighters roaring, hundreds of them filling the sky, forming patterns and performing feats to the crowd’s delighted whoops and yells. Ren’s glad for the noise. For a long minute into the aerial show, Ren sees X-wings instead of TIE fighters, remembering the stale air of an old freighter, the sickeningly exhilarating swoop in his stomach as it careened downwards, before the pilot pulled it up with a sudden jerk of the controls. Laughter, and then a soothing voice. _Hey, kid, it’s okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got the whole world ahead of us, you and me and your mom._

The memory fades, the brilliant blue sky of that morning fading into the pollution-tainted grey of this world. The only colors that remain are the red of the banners and the Emperor’s hair. Still so brilliant, even in this planet’s faded sunlight, as Ren holds his gaze steady. Waiting.

The Emperor breaks eye contact first. Looking away and exiting the dais a little too quickly, followed by his personal guard. He doesn’t look back, but Ren can feel his unwavering attention all the same.

 _I’m the only one loyal to you._ It had been a lie at first, words used to placate a bloodthirsty monster wearing the trappings of a human. But Ren can’t rid himself of the memory of wide blue eyes in a delicate face, warm skin, and the steady beat of a pulse. And when Ren remembers that strange sweet vulnerability, something in him falters. He fights, fights to remember he’s holding onto a slaver, a tyrant, the murderer of billions, but what’s difficult to forget when the Emperor’s making a speech, or giving an order to annex another planet into the Empire’s ever-growing territory is harder to remember whenever Ren sees him lean a forehead against a transparisteel window, pale eyes tracking the distant stars. Whenever Ren sees him bite back a smile or a laugh at something he says, so unguarded sometimes, the flushed animation on his face whenever he and Ren argued about policy and implementation, and how he actually listens - a far cry from most of the politicians Ren had encountered over the years.

(When Ren had seen so much of his humanity, in the sliver of a moment when he held him close.)

(So human, beneath it all.)

Ren turns to leave. Ojah follows, but with the stubborn set of her jaw, Ren knows he hasn’t heard the last of it. Later on, he will ignore Captain Phasma as he forces his way into the Emperor’s study, and demand for his decision on the trade agreement. It may or may not devolve into another shouting match. It may or may not end with his victory, or his execution. For all he knows his gamble might end with Tatooine being blasted into an asteroid belt surrounding the twin suns.

(There was a flush creeping up the Emperor’s pale neck, before he turned away. His expression in that split second uncertain and fragile.)

 _You’re going to be mine, Hux._ It’s not a promise, not a threat, just a fact. Above him, fireworks explode across the sky, the TIE fighters expertly avoiding the flames. Somewhere, music starts playing, almost drowned out by the roaring crowd.  Ren sees nothing but fiery red hair and ice blue eyes, a beacon pulling him forward.

 


End file.
